Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/68

Its tones melodious, on that festal day?
Young men and maidens of the tuneful lip,
The bright in beauty, and the proud in strength,
With bosoms fluttering to illusive hope,
Where are they? Can ye tell, ye hoary Ones,
Who few, and feebly leaning on your staves
Bow down, where erst with manhood's lofty port
Ye tower'd as columns? They have sunk away,
Brethren and sisters, from your empty grasp
Like bubbles on the pool, and ye are left,
With life's long lessons furrow'd on your brow.
Change worketh all around you. The lithe twig
That in your boyhood ye did idly bend
Maketh broad shadow, and the forest-king
Arching majestic o'er your school-day sports,
Mouldereth, to sprout no more. The little babe,
Ye as a plaything dandled, of whose frame
Perchance ye spake, as most exceeding frail
And prone to perish like the flower of grass,
Doth nurse his children's children on his knee.
—But still your ancient Shepherd's voice ye hear,
Tho' age hath quell'd its power, and well those tones
Of serious, saintly tenderness do stir
The springs of love and reverence. As your guide
He in the heavenward path hath firmly walk'd
Bearing your joys and sorrows in his breast,
And on his prayers. He at your household hearths
Hath spoke his Master's message, while your babes
Listening imbib'd, as blossoms drink the dew;
And when your dead were buried from your sight,
Was he not there?
                            His scatter'd locks are white
With the hoar-frost of time, but in his soul